


Sekhmet and the Wolf

by imaginary_golux



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2015-02-24
Packaged: 2018-03-14 23:21:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3429260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginary_golux/pseuds/imaginary_golux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Golden Oldies Porn Battle, prompt: Remus/Hermione, scars.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sekhmet and the Wolf

Remus wears his scars on his skin, for anyone to see: marks of the terrible battle he has raged against himself, on those moonlit lonely nights when all the world is asleep but he. Hermione has no scars on her fair young skin, but Remus, who learned too young to speak the language of pain, sees them in the dark behind her eyes, the quirk of her lips which has no humor in it, the silence which she does not fill with words.

One predator knows another, and so the wolf beneath Remus’ skin recognizes the lioness pacing behind Hermione’s eyes, young and battle-scarred and deadly. He hears its snarl in her soft answers, sees the shadow of claws in her gentle movements. He watches her from the corner where he retreats during Order meetings – the wall is at his back, so he is somewhat protected, somewhat hidden – and sees her watching him in turn, assessing the threat that he might present, all her trust long since lost in the chaos of the war.

And after the meeting is over and the Order has dispersed, some here and some there at the boy hero’s command (and Remus can hear a lion’s roar and a serpent’s hiss in Harry’s voice, and wonders which will prevail in the end) – after, when they are alone, Hermione comes to him, her gait a stalk, her eyes grown dark with scars.

Remus leans into her kiss, lets her bite at his lips as she climbs into his lap, revels in the brief pain of her fingers digging hard into his shoulders, sharp as claws. The bruises will not last till morning – only silver and the wolf can give him scars – but just now, blissfully, he can pretend to be as human as he isn’t, put his head back and bare his throat to the lioness above him, knowing that his lean, scarred body tells her that it is possible to survive the most grievous wounds.

She has a room here, in this dark old house where Sirius’ pain still seeps from every corner, and so does he. Some nights they end up on her narrow child’s bed which no longer fits her woman’s body; others on the wide mattress which Remus can never quite convince himself he deserves. Either way, she pins him down, banishes his clothing with a word (or tears it open, mending it the next morning with a practiced flick of her wand) and tracing the lines of his scars with wondering fingers. Her hands are warm, and gentle with the care of one who has learned her own strength by trial and error, and Remus tangles his hands in the mane of her hair and draws her down to kiss her, deep and sweet and drugging as the moon, until her eyes slide shut in pleasure and he cannot see her scars.

When she opens them again, her eyes are bright like stars, all their darkness hidden by desire, and he could swear her teeth are pointed when she grins.

She is beautiful, his young lioness, all scars and claws and deadly elegance in battle. He thinks – he knows – that in her capacious memory she holds the means to kill him, a list of all his strengths and weaknesses, beside the lists and means to kill everyone else who might someday dare to threaten the boy hero, to whose protection she has sworn herself. Remus doesn’t mind. He rather appreciates it, really, knowing that if the worst should happen and his wolf should escape from its monthly prison, there would be one whose strike would be sure and unhesitating, that he would die before he killed. His lioness defends her pride, and even his proud wolf fears her claws and teeth.

But there is no fear in him now, as his lioness rises naked and glorious above him, takes him into herself with the same surety which sends spells flying from her lips and wand. Perhaps she has no skill upon a broom, but _oh_ – in this type of riding, Remus thinks, she has all the skill a man might ask. She is all sleek lines and glorious curves, the sweet arch of her neck and the tremble in her pale thighs, and Remus thinks that she is more beautiful than a mortal woman has a right to be – that Sekhmet the protector, the destroyer, the avatar of war has deigned to come to earth and bless a scarred and battered wolf for reasons only she can comprehend.

But for those few precious moments, he is only a man, scarred but whole, and she is only a woman with desire shining in her eyes, and they move together in the age-old dance, forgetting all the worries of the war. Remus waits until his lioness shudders above him, around him, until her soft moans turn to triumphant cries, before he lets himself reach up to grasp her hips like a lifeline and spills himself within her, surrendering everything he is to this lion-goddess of a woman who has chosen him.

Afterwards, she sprawls atop him – he knows he is a bony bed, but she does not seem to care – and he traces the long curve of her spine with gentle fingers, counting his blessings on the knobs of bone.

Often, she falls asleep there, long days of bitter war taking their toll, and Remus, sticky and sated, gropes for his wand and murmurs a quiet cleaning spell, douses the lights with another word, and lies awake through the night, guarding her sleeping hours.

In the darkness, he muses, no one can see their scars.


End file.
